Four Hundred Ways to Self-Destruct
by flickers
Summary: /Lights, red and blue, flash through the cacophony of sounds. I arrive too late to prevent the disaster, one - I suspect - of my own making. It's not Hannah, this time. It's just. An accident./ Dexter takes action. AU filler, Season 8. Dexter/Deb. Drama, confrontations and inappropriate sibling relationship. Another version of the aftermath and Deb spinning out of control.
1. Collision

___Dexter. AU filler, Season 8. Dexter/Deb. Drama, confrontations ____and inappropriate sibling relationship. Another version of the aftermath and Deb spinning out of __control. Possible multi-chapter. Disclaimer: characters belong to the creators of Dexter. No profit here. Un-betaed._

* * *

_**Four Hundred Ways to Self-Destruct**_

_**.**_

_01. Collision_

**_._**

_Lights, red and blue, flash __through the cacophony of sounds. I arrive too late to prevent the disaster, one - I suspect - of my own making._

.

It's not Hannah, this time. It's just. An accident.

By the time I sit at her side in the ambulance Quinn has filled me in with the missing details.

The police are nearly finished with the report. Straight road, clear night, no extreme weather conditions, and an ex-cop no less.

It's as bizarre as it gets. But knowing the true reasons behind my sister's predicament, I am more worried than surprised.

.

"What is this even..." Deb sounds faint and tired, barely holding on, wrapped in a shock blanket, looking like she would drown in there. Like she could.

We watch as they haul the scrap metal onto the tow truck.

I don't have an answer for her. At least none she'd like to hear. It wasn't a real question anyway.

.

.

.

We drive home. The car is full of silence. She's withdrawn somewhere into herself as is her habit of late.

I wonder if it's a nice place. Her own private peace resort, with no rules and scruples. Where everything is right. I wonder if I can join her there.

Or are serial-killing brothers barred from that world as well...

.

.

.

The lights in her apartment don't work. A power outage. Or blown fuses. I check the junction box to make sure no one has tampered with the wiring.

.

She walks slowly to the fridge and I hear a soft '_fuck_' emanating from inside the kitchen appliance. The only things still working are the tap and the gas stove, and a pot of tea seems like a reasonable option.

"Deb?" I try, when she saunters off with a lukewarm beer in her left hand, and a cigarette in the other. She flicks the lighter a couple of times, before the fidgeting ceases enough for a single flash of flame.

.

"What?" she inhales, shakily. It's been years since I last saw her do that, and I can't help but see it as yet another mark of the damage I've inflicted. "What the hell, Dexter?"

As expected, she does not appreciate being scolded like a small child, the offending item plucked out of her fingers. As I walk back to the bin to dispose of it, I catch Debra's footsteps close on my heels. At least I got her attention.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Dexter, who the _fuck_ do you think you are?" she corners me between the garbage dispenser and the kitchen island.

.

"I'm your brother," I supply in the semi-darkness, quite redundantly. "And you've just been through a trauma-"

"Fuck. You." She lets out a breath of warm air. Her trembling has burnt to a silent rage. "_You_ are the only trauma in my life."

The irony is not lost on me. Ever since LaGuerta, she's been rolling down some invisible hill my lies have forced her upon. And now that she's neither a Lieutenant nor a homicide detective, she has as little of herself left as right after Harry died.

And it's all my doing. It's time to embrace the responsibility. Deal with the aftermath.

.

"You're clearly not yourself..." I insist, weaker still, watch her chip her nails against the wall, her knuckles pale. I resist the urge to rip them away, stop her from digging deeper.

Our staring contest will lead to nothing. Her fury lasts a few more seconds before her arm drops, freeing my way.

"Just... fucking _go_."

The amount of expletives in her speech should warn me to heed her advice and back off, but I can't. Not anymore. I've kept my distance for the past few weeks. Said nothing when she quit her post, her career, the dreams she's fought for and managed to achieve. I gave her the distance she wanted. Nothing's changed. And it's time for different tactics.

.

"No."

Something alarming must have shown on my face, for she's begun backing up, eager to regain the distance she'd kept so far and dropped in her anger. She takes another step back. And I - one forward, until I have her trapped in that very same junction of her kitchen. It's time to hear this. Have her pour it out on me.

I keep my back straight.

"Not until you talk to me."

Isn't that what she taught me, about Rita? _Stop being a douche bag and go fight for her. _Isn't all the advice we give to others truly about ourselves?

.

"Damnit, Dex..." she growls, trying to twist my hands, pressed against the wall.

I stand my ground.

It's an uncharted territory. And there's no telling how she'll react. If she'll either forgive me or hate me forever.

She runs out of patience, gives me a sharp shove. A heavier one, then another and another. I won't move, my body as firm as a cage trapping her. I close my eyes, let her lash out. It's only fitting. Let her hurt me rather than herself. And perhaps, through this punishment, I will get absolution.

.

Her struggling becomes more desperate.

I am barely fast enough to catch her kneecap before it hits my weak point, and just like that she's trapped in awkward balance, her eyes wide and full of emotions I don't have a name for. We stay a few seconds in this equilibrium, letting me believe I won, when she reaches closer, wraps her arms tight around my torso and... bites.

.

Yelping, I push away from her that very instant and lose my balance in the process, and hit the counter. Her leg freed, she loses her footing as well, and ends up the same - back against the opposing wall. And so we sit, the both of us, sprawled, gasping, gawking at each other on the kitchen floor.

There's something stinging my neck, and when I reach out and touch it, it's wet and there's a dark streak on my hand. I have long taken comfort in blood, but now, the liquid feels morbid and warm against my hand, and out of place, somehow.

"You wouldn't let go," Deb offers, haltingly, eyes turned away. Still in this half-crouched position, she reaches over me for her abandoned bottle of beer on the countertop and takes a long swig. Then, without prompting, she hands it to me. It's warm and unpleasant, but I hardly care.

Somewhere above us, the teapot starts whistling.

.

.

.

"Don't you have work tomorrow or something?" she asks when it's past midnight and I still haven't left her place. Legs stretched out, I look out across her patio, where the waves crash, unseen, in the distance.

"It's Friday."

Jamie is watching Harrison. She's probably heard of the accident and settled for the night.

Deb just nods. She'd probably lost the track of days. Quitting your job can do that to you.

Worse yet, it's bound to raise questions. Particularly on such a short notice. She did not even show up at her station. I went and collected her stuff, destroyed anything that could pass for evidence, packed the rest in a single brown cardboard box. In all likelihood, it's still waiting, somewhere... abandoned in some shady corner of her apartment.

She says nothing after that, but our brief scuffle seems to have made her accept my presence at her apartment. It's been decades since I last wrestled with my sister. Not that I ever really could.

Harry instructed me keep calm, never show myself on the offensive, unless in it for the kill. So, even when we were fighting, it was always her fighting with me.

I didn't mind, you see. For once, the storm was outside me, not within.

.

.

.

"I can't believe I did that. That I let you..." she spills out in the dark, when I can't see her. "LaGuerta is dead, Dexter. She's dead because of me, and nothing happened. And nothing ever will. Like there's no consequence. Like her life doesn't matter."

.

"It's not your fault, Deb." I repeat like a mantra, hoping she'd let go eventually. Let the light in. And the universe do its job.

.

"Yes, it is. I did that just as I'm sitting on this couch right now. She's dead and we're alive and she'll have no fucking justice for it."

.

"Not many things do," I add, speaking from experience.

For wasn't I an instrument of justice? The Code, Harry, Speltzer and her realisation... wasn't it all there for a reason? That despite everything that's happened, I've maintained that integrity.

.

Unlike her.

I can never completely express my full gratitude for something that heinous.

But - what she did, she did for _me_. At the cost of her own soul, she's kept me clean, on the right track.

.

My dearest sister Debra. Damaged beyond repair.

Harry's true daughter. And I, his legacy. Both gazing into the darkness beyond.

And the truth is, I've never loved her more.

.

Except.

She's derailed herself. And I can't get her back.

"Why are you still here?" she whispers into the nothingness that lurks around us, within her and me. There's mugs, the empty boxes and beer bottles cluttering the coffee table, and I'm hungry for everything and nothing at all. "Why aren't you out there... killing things?" It sounds like an interrogation, like she chiding me. Giving me what I've been wanting to all along, in my deepest darkest recesses.

A permission.

.

Instead I am fixed. I remain here.

My hand worms its way on the cushions to find hers. I clasp it, like it could run from me.

"I'm in the only place I should to be.".

She may be lost, far off the chosen track. Where she never needed to be.

It's only fair I ride it out with her.

**. . .**

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_There may be a follow-up in the works. Feedback much appreciated!_


	2. Break

_So it's been taking a while. Mostly because I kept rewriting this, to find an angle that hasn't been done before__. There is already so much great fiction out there focusing this issue._

_ Mainly, I'm just tackling the gap of the missing six months, without Vogel in the picture. To those waiting__ for Dexter/Deb angle, it is present, and headed there, though I'm treading carefully on this... above all, I want to stay true to__ the characters. _

* * *

**.**

_02. Break_

**.**

We lie, half-entangled, twisted and uncomfortable, crammed to our respective ends of the couch, as if needing to escape from each other yet reluctant to do so.

I can barely sleep, like that. Instead, I'm content watching her. Resting. Somewhat.

Deb was always the part of me that made sense. The part that didn't need my instructions - on how to act and what to feel. The part that didn't need fixing.

How we've managed to get to this point, I don't know. And yet, the old patterns occur, new moments of doubt and silence.

Maybe we were always headed this way, and I never realised. Was never willing to admit.

.

.

.

About the third time her eyes snap open they stay so. It's still dark outside, the dawn still hours away. She gapes and blinks at the ceiling, and the fan that isn't working.

I close my eyes when she looks my way, steal another precious moment of her unguarded self.

I peer at her through my lashes. She stays like this for a while, looking in front of her, with elbows on her knees, as if remembering something.

I get these moments a lot... memories. Reminders. Lessons from times passed.

Somehow I doubt they add up with hers.

.

.

.

She then gets up, finds a bottle and walks out onto the patio, shilouetted against the glowing strip where the sky meets the sea. For a while I can only see the slump of her shoulders, the curve that keeps on bending, polishing those proud edges. Like the sea grinds rocks into sand.

I sit by her side, quiet as the night around us. She shares her whiskey with me.

It's as if we were kids again, ransacking Harry's liquor cabinet, staying up all night.

I remember times when these things didn't seem to matter. Small things. How Harry kept telling me how each action had a consequence.

I guess I've learned my lesson.

.

"I dreamed..." she says, eyes on the horizon.

I wait patiently.

"We were back in the station. I was still a detective and we were all covering you - me, Batista, even Quinn... You kept taking new victims and we all worked for you. We were all in it. And I just- didn't care."

I've had a similar dream once, when I had left a man, half-chopped, on my table. Everyone was acting so normal it took me time to realise it wasn't.

That I'm not normal.

"It's crazy, right?" Her bottom lip twitches, not quite a smile.

Beyond us, the sea gushes on. Calming. Unstoppable.

"I don't think you're crazy." I know that for sure. "You're hurt, nothing more."

It happens - when killing an innocent. I've acted outside the code, plenty of times. Oscar Prado, that red-neck I clubbed to death... Hannah's father, Jonathan Farrow. There's been mistakes, self-defence, revenge, even mercy... But nothing so utterly unjustifiable.

.

It's what's kept my humanity intact. This and Deb. How fitting.

.

.

"I pulled the trigger, Dex." She echoes, savouring the words. "I really did it."

And there's that guilt again, ebbing a hole in me, where I've buried Brian and Rita. Let go of Astor and Cody. But not Deb, not yet Deb.

"I brought you into this. It's my fault."

"I did it," she repeats, with different inflection. And yes, I can't argue with that.

I can't make her forget this. No more than I can fix Rita's death.

But I can help her past that. Save her.

.

.

.

"Debra. Deb? Will you listen?" I chase her through the living room through another open door, where she collapses on her bed. "You need help, talk to someone."

"I can't see another shrink, not after-" she halts and turns away. Bites her cuticles, as if actually considering it. "I don't know what I can say."

"No, I don't mean like that. Someone who knows."

"And who's that?"

"Me."

Her eyes snap open, and the idea sounds even more ridiculous once I've said it out loud.

"You're not a therapist, Dex."

_No, but I killed one_, I want to say, but it's not the time. _The less you know..._

I push her legs aside, to make room for me on the edge of the mattress. "Just, I'm asking you to trust me. Please."

She obliges, and sets both her legs on the mattress. Waiting, just so.

"You've done this often?"

"Just relax. It's my first."

"Sounds like some other first times," she jokes crudely, in self-defence, and I flinch, much to my embarrassment.

But she's right... this is crazy.

Besides, how many of us would allow a serial killer into their head?

.

"Okay."

I didn't really expect that.

.

She's still a bit drunk from whiskey, probably why she agrees to this in the first place. But I sit and wait, for her to confirm this. "You're okay then?"

"Yeah."

.

Much like her, I don't know what I'm getting into.

.

.

.

_Hypnotherapy, really?_ I remember thinking of Masuka's latest plan to attract chicks. Convince them he's the new Freud and open a back-door into their minds. And pants.

It's not like he was short of volunteers. It just this stuff doesn't often work. You can't suggest anything that conflicts with the persona, and even then the results are fleeting at best. Besides, it came dangerously close to the consent issues, so he dropped it before any sexual harassment cases could start piling up.

Which is why I should not be on this website in the first place and should continue my search until Deb wakes up.

Still, the idea won't leave my mind. What a concept: crawling up into another person's head. Organizing things around, telling them what to think. Fixing... things.

I snap my laptop shut, plunging myself into darkness.

.

.

.

This is wrong. _Right?_

.

.

.

"Morning."

Debra stumbles over the threshold, to a bacon and eggs turned into pancakes. "I had to use up the milk, before it went bad," I explain, wondering if she remembers the power outage at all.

"Oh. Sure." She sounds groggy, hung over, but I keep my mouth shut.

She sips at the hot beverage and curses when she burns her lip. It sounds oddly like her old self. I breathe, a little. It's a small step, but definitely in the right direction.

She looks around her mess of a apartment, something I am yet to fix. All I had time for was take out the bottles.

"Something wrong?" I ask, when she's looking around like she's lost something. The keys to her car, for example.

"Why-" she frowns, looking at me. "Why are you here?"

"You crashed your car last night, you don't remember?" Silence. "I just stayed to make sure you were okay. You may have a concussion."

"Yeah, I do feel like shit."

_Probably because you downed most of the 30-year-old whiskey last night._ Instead I point her to the counter.

"There's some meds for your headache."

.

.

.

For the best half of the morning everything seems to be fine. She smiles at me, jokes and slips some more curse words, even mentions her job as through some old habit.

Then, it all comes crashing down.

She stares at the shards of her mug where it fell on the floor, and the bang awoke something we'd just buried. A collision? A gunshot.

A piece of evidence is all that's needed to crack a case. The same goes for our memories.

Our past and present are interconnected; one silver thread of reasoning and my work comes undone.

And then, the inevitable.

.

"The fuck you did... It didn't work. Your freaking scientific mumbo-jumbo."

I can't tell what she's more pissed about. The experiment itself, or my failure to do it right.

"It's an tested method for working through trauma. You agreed to give it a try, remember?"

"I can't believe I let you talk me into some brain-wash crap..."

I approach her carefully, touch her arms at her shoulders, while she grapples with the confusion.

I should have known. _Damn Masuka._

.

"Deb, relax. It didn't work."

"Yeah, but you let me walk around for half a morning, remembering what it was like... to be a full person."

"You _are_ a full person."

"No, I'm half you, half-" She breathes, deep, "...nutbag."

.

"Deb, you're not going insane."

"Well, how would you know?"

.

"Because, you're too strong."

.

Tired, she slumps against the back of a couch. "Fuck."

I dump the shards in the bin and begin drying the floor. I look up to see her pressing her fingers against her eyes. I don't need to guess how she felt.

It feels like what Brian left for me, in room 103.

"It's okay to be upset."

"No- Fuck. you."

"Deb, I just wanted to -"

I drop the towel. There's a nice retort in mind, but its better to let her finish. As long as she's in this - state.

"No more lies, okay?" Her eyes glisten. "I worked my way through knowing the truth. I can't do this all over again. Ever."

.

"Okay. I understand." And I really mean it. "I'm sorry."

.

"I wish it had worked," she amends, belatedly. "Too good to be true, huh?"

She kicks her heel against the back of the sofa. These days, even her own psyche seems to be working against us.

"I'm sorry." I repeat, because there's nothing else to say.

.

"Just, stop fucking saying that. You're not the only one feeling sorry here."

.

I dare to come closer again. There's a difference between being pissed and being messed up, though with Deb, it's often hard to tell.

It's latter, I can guess, when I sit by her side without a further protest. And if my guess is right, there might be some hope yet. She's not down the ravine yet.

I just wish it could be me that brings her back from the brink of it.

.

She's breathing softly. I try to match her tone. Not overpower it.

"We can stop if you want..." I offer her a way out. The door is open. I'm not forcing her. Or am I?

Is this yet another trick?

.

She shakes a bit and her mouth tugs at a smile. It falls right off.

.

"What's next?"

We might yet stand a chance.

I shrug, nonchalant.

.

"Breakfast."

* * *

_I'm toying with some ideas here... for therapy. some may sound crazier than others. But still, hardly more than Dexter letting Debra out of his sight for six months, after what happened. I mean, __really.._

_Next chapter up sooner than later, I hope. __Thank you all for the feedback!_


	3. Blindspots

**.**

_03. Blindspots_

**.**

It's Saturday morning. The streets of Miami are congested with roadworks, traffic jams and re-routes. Normally, I'd be on top of that, thinking three steps ahead, prepared to deal with whichever obstacle life may throw at me.

A horde of vacation-goers was never one of them.

"Hey, Jamie, it's me," I speak into the phone. Technically, I may still be behind the wheel, though moving less than a mile in the last half an hour hardly counts as driving. "I'm just calling to let you know we're going to be a little bit late." Deb rolls her eyes. I glance at my watch. "Well, _a lot_ late. We're caught in the traffic."

I sound the signal, when another asshole attempts to cut through. On a normal day I wouldn't bother. A normal Dexter would let the slide.

All we need is to get there and all will work out. One nice day on the beach.

"I know. Yeah, the same. Just, tell Harrison - tell him I'm on my way. We're still going, okay? Make sure he knows that."

.

.

Deb huffs against the passenger window, knees pressed against the glove box. The AC is on, but there's nothing improve the view, or the fact that she's stuck here with me.

"When is this going to end?" she comments, and I know it's not just about the traffic.

Spending quality time with others is not my forte, not even an acquired skill. Even in my marriage with Rita, I kept my distance. My old apartment. The tool shed. The padlocked chest that contained my secrets, the only evidence of who I really am.

How I wish Deb hadn't pried it open.

.

"When things are back to normal," I supply, calmly and I manoeuvre back into the first lane.

"Normal?" she retorts sarcastically. "What is that and how did I miss it?"

The joke is double edged. It cuts us both. The vision of Harry sighs in the backseat.

"Deb," I relax, let go of the wheel for a bit. "You know I worry... about you."

"Well. Don't."

.

This vehicle is not going anywhere, so we might just as well talk.

"How can I not? - After your_ 'accident_'." I raise my brows at her.

"What is that supposed to mean," she sounds surprised, confused. Dismayed even.

I'm about to find out more, but we're moving again, somewhat. Nervous jittery drivers..

"How can you simply veer off the highway," I spell it out, hoping to bring some clarity, "On a straight road?"

"Well, Dex. Shit happens."

_Not this kind of shit. Not to us._

So I keep piling up the evidence.

"I know you weren't driving under influence. No drugs. I had Masuka do your tox screen - it came back clean. So, what gives?"

"I was tired. Must have fallen asleep or something..."

"Except you work all sorts of hours, and it's never happened before."

Her mouth parts, gasps for air. Something is unravelling. I can see it.

"Deb, just. _Tell_ _me_." I have to know. "Did you-"

I can't even say it...

.

"I did _not_ crash on purpose, if that's what you mean." Deb cuts me short. "A _fucking_ suicide? Jesus Dex, don't you think I'm better than this?"

The van before us starts moving.

The strange part is, I believe her, when she says it like that. Staunch and certain. But I need more.

"Then - why?"

The gap on the road widens, we're facing a twenty feet empty space, and the cars are honking behind us. I can't drive. Not when I need to see her.

Pulled to the roadside, the cars begin to pass us, the cluster is resolving, while we stay.

I let go of the wheel and wait, Debs eyes dark as coal on mine.

.

.

.

"Have you- have you ever driven alone, at night? Going 90 miles per hour, and - for no reason - switched off the lights?" Deb's voice is quiet, eyes distant. Her gaze settles amidst the passing the sea of cars. "Suddenly, you see nothing around you, and everything from afar. The night, the city, but nothing from a few feet ahead. You're flying, at full speed, and you don't see shit. You have no idea where you're at. All you can do is trust, the road, your feeling... that the road is still there, under you."

"How- how often do you do this?" I ask, when I get past the pit in my stomach.

"Once, by accident" she shrugs, pokes the lock with her knee. "Twice, three-four times. Guess that was the last."

"This. is. _crazy_."

"Crazier than killing people?"

.

Really? Is she really bringing this back to me?

_For once, when I am not the problem here._

I grip the steering wheel, rest my forehead against it. I can't believe this. That she did this, risking her life like that.

.

"Deb, I do what I do because I _need_ to. Not because of some-"

"Need?" She cuts through my ramblings. "You do what you _want_ to do it, because it's the only way you know how to-..."

- _be alive._

Her unfinished sentence hangs between us, and I know the answer.

Worse yet, I'm out of ammo, my arguments that failed me will failed her as well.

.

.

.

"I know I've changed you - turned you into something you're not. And it's my fault. I don't know what to say except I'm sorry, and I want to help you through this... But this risk-seeking behaviour is not the way to do this. It won't end well." I run out of air and excuses.

"Really?" she lets out a surprised laugh. "You're really going to lecture me now?"

"For God's sake, Deb, think about Harrison." I push just a little bit further. And further still. "You're the closest thing to a mother he'll ever have. Don't make him lose you, too."

I wait. Deb's feelings for me might be complex at best, but not when it comes to my son.

.

"Asshole," Deb mutters. "Why'd you always have to play the Harrison card?"

.

"I'm not playing anything."

I stop to look at her, our car stranded by the road: a mono-dimensional vastness, surrounded by space.

"I just need you to promise me- Promise me you won't do anything to put yourself in harms way. Deb, I can't-..." frustration takes over me.

She looks at me and my desperation must be obvious to the eye. I can't lose her.

Over anything. Least of all myself.

.

.

"And you?" she measures me, with that cold calm she must have learned from me. "What do you promise in return?"

I already gave up my trophies, promised to stay off the cases. _What else can I do?_

"Anything."

_She can't ask me to lay off the killing again, not after...everything._

_._

Her face hardens. "No more crap you bring into our lives. None of those psychopath buddies. Trinity, Travis, Hannah, Rud..." she chokes on the last word, but won't correct herself. "Enough of this shit. From now on, it's business only. You taking care of your - _need -_, and that's all there is to it. A job. No more cat and mouse, do you hear me?"

"Back to the basics," I agree.

That's what Harry taught me, what The Code stands for. What kept me alive so long...

The elements of play I added to it myself, allowing a bit of fun, to indulge in. Harry never truly approved of the kick I actually got out of it. The symbolism I looked for. The Ritual.

And look where it has gotten me.

.

.

"I promise." The road is clear, where there had been a jam, just half an hour ago.

.

Deb nods, calmer than in days.

I turn the ignition.

.

.

.

Jamie greets us at the entrance, the half-packed bag ready with towels and sunscreen. Few toys that still need to be picked out, a lunch box in the freezer.

"Auntie Deb." The kid runs to Debra's waiting arms.

"Come here, buddy," she laughs and she half-hugs, half lifts her up in the air, and breathes in his sent. "I have missed you."

I know the feeling. The peace he brings. The last remaining piece of innocence in our lives.

Now that I've already ruined Deb.

.

"Everything okay?" Jamie asks, touches Deb's arm lightly, and looks at me with genuine concern. Quinn has obviously spilled more beans than necessary, which in turn, leaves less explaining to me.

"Yes, no one's hurt." I glance at Deb. Feet in the air, Harrison makes a few twirls in the air before she sets him down, safe. Jamie smiles one last time.

"Good. Let me know if you need anything."

"Will do."

.

.

.

It strikes me - in my beach chair, watching Deb chase Harrison through the sand - how much we look like a small family unit. For an outward glance, however misled, would mistake Deb for a mother rather than an aunt to my son. I wonder what it's like for Harrison, how he'll understand this model of ours.

As sad as it makes me, Rita is all but gone from his life. Neither of us really got to know our real mothers.

At some point he'll be asking questions. If he's smart.

Perhaps he already does.

.

.

.

All this running in the sun must have worn her out, for she's soon back at my side, while Harrison starts piling lopsided towers from wet mud. There's not many others here, just two guys with a frisbee, and the rest, even further away.

I always preferred solitude, and secluded beaches. But even here, the people get to us. Judging the directionality of the wind and their aim, their playing is bound to invade our space.

And, sure enough - the red disc lands in the sand, just a foot away from the mud towers.

Harrison sees it and picks it up before I can say 'no'.

Awkwardly, he makes his first attempt at throwing it back.

"That your son?" One of the guys asks, as he comes to claim his frisbee. Between nodding at me and smiling at Debra, I can't really tell who the question was aimed at. I answer anyway.

"Yeah. Harrison."

"He's a great kid."

_And how would you know?_

The guy is really getting on my nerves, and is he has eyes on Debra. Still, I remain civil. Try and smile.

His buddy waves at us, too. Great. My smile grows heavy.

"Hey Jim, stop bothering that couple."

Jim laughs. And leaves.

.

I nod, thankful that he's going.

.

"Why'd you that?" Deb turns to me, eyebrow raised. I match her expression "Say nothing?"

"It didn't seem to matter what he thought. We're family either way."

She seems unconvinced, and strangely annoyed. All I did was spare us from the intrusion.

_Unless... _I squint again. "What, did you like him?"

Deb scoffs and appears amused. I suppose not.

I am reacting all wrong today. Maybe it's the heat?

"Fuck, Dex - never took you for _that_ type."

"I just want to take care of you."

"Take care or control?"

Her eyes are hidden behind the shades, so I can only see her mouth, pressed shut.

"Deb... I care about you. You know that, right?"

.

She says nothing for a while.

.

"You see, at times... you remind me of him."

I open my eyes to a squint. She's been looking at me.

"Who? Dad?"

"No." She pauses. "_Rudy_."

_Brian_, I want to correct. I decide not to.

"Deb - we share around fifty per cent the same genetic material." It's only normal, we were related - blood-brothers.

If anything, I'm surprised this topic hasn't come up earlier.

.

"No, not like that..."

It takes a moment to sink in, to grasp the significance of what she's hinting.

"You're both... assertive, manipulative, possessive like shit."

"Deb, I'm not-" I jump to my defence, but she isn't having any of it.

"And I liked it. Jesus _fuck_. I liked it, Dex. It felt safe. Like someone had thought of everything. Like I was being taken care of." She smiles. "Ironic, huh?"

Yeah. Ironic. The word that sums up most of my human contact.

Like I'm some huge twisted joke by the universe.

"And this - reminds you of me?"

I gape, wordless, exposed.

"Sometimes."

.

Then, I feel irritated... The conversation with the frisbee-guy from earlier pops up in my mind.

She's called me a control-freak before, but never in such comparison. Never so definitively. And all I want is to refute this.

_But how?_

_._

_I am doing this for _you_._ - She wouldn't believe that anymore.

.

_I would never hurt you, like he did._

Except, I already did.

.

"I dream of him, too..." I say instead.

A piece of truth for the starving.

Her eyes turn to me suddenly, and I wonder if she'll accept this. Me.

"... how it would have been. Together. As a family."

She looks at me, and her voice softens. "Do you ever - regret any of it?"

It makes me think, for a second. But not longer.

.

"Being forced to choose, maybe. But choosing you... never."

Deb says nothing again.

"There's was too much false promises." I assure myself, remembering our road trip. Nebraska. It was wrong from the start. What I experienced was but a glimpse.

And I desperately, desperately want to be right. I want this to last.

"It would have never worked." I drop to a whisper. "That's why I had to kill him."

.

The wind picks up around us and Deb is oddly quiet. For all his crimes, we both mourned Brian.

"I guess I should thank you for this."

I look back and remember. Deb's arms around me, trembling, in that oversized police jacket in the ambulance - before Harrison, before Rita became my wife, and I knew she was the single important thing I could never lose from my life. Not even now.

.

"You already did."

.

* * *

_Next up, the evening. Thanks for the support and encouragement so far!_


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